Underneath, nestling coyly amongst the box springs of my bunk, was a tiny, complete transmission-reception set. I'm no dummy. Midnight watches are a bore, and many is the time I'd turned in with a pair of earphones on, rather than sit nodding in the turret for dreary hours waiting for messages that might never come in. Of course this auxiliary set was useless so long as the main set was O.O.O.--but by listening in, I could tell how Lanse was coming along with his repair job, perhaps give him a little assistance by remote control should he need it. So I donned the phones--and just like I thought, the circuit was as cold as a ditch-digger's toes in Siberia. For a few seconds. Then all of a sudden something squawked, "Krrrr-_wowowooo_! _Brglrp! Glrp!_"--and a familiar voice came from far, far away. The voice of Lancelot Biggs, saying: "_That_ ought to do it! Now, let me see if--" I hugged myself gleefully. The old master mind had done it again! In just two hours and sixteen minutes. Tell _me_ Lancelot Biggs isn't a genius! I shoved my puss to the mike. I hissed, "Lanse!" There was a brief silence. Then Biggs' curious response. "Is that you, Sparks?" "In person," I told him, "and not a facsimile. How you getting along, pal?" "Why, all right, I guess." He clucked, and I could envision the rueful shake of his head. "It was a frightful mess, Sparks. How you ever let it get in that condition--" "I let it get in that condition," I told him, "like I got sick. By orders of Madman Cooper. That guy's a wingding with the mace, ain't he? Where'd you get the replacement parts?" "Out of the supply locker, mostly. I had to rewind the L-49 armature, though. We had no spares." "You'd better throw a shunt across the No. 4 rheo," I suggested. "You're heterodyning on vocal freke; otherwise you seem to have matters under control. Nice going, bud. I guess you know this is your final test?" "I suspected it. Well, I'm going to test now. See if I can contact Lunar III. Stand by, Sparks. I'll cut you into the circuit so you can hear." Current hummed and squealed; dots and dashes ripped the ether as Biggs pulsed a signal to Mother Earth's satellite. Slow seconds dragged. We are very close to Mars, and it takes a message almost two and a half minutes to make the hurdle from the green planet to the red one. I waited tensely. And then, faint and far, but yet clear, came the reply. "Answering IPS _Saturn_. Go ahead, _Saturn_." It was Joe Marlowe's hand on the bug. I could tell that. You know how it is; every operator has a transmitting style just as distinctive as handwriting. "_Go_ ahead, _Saturn_." Then, "Are you sober, Donovan?" I gritted my teeth. But Biggs put an end to Joe's smart stuff with his next transmission. "Donovan ill. Relief man at key. _Saturn_ reporting for orders. Any orders, Luna? Any orders?"